


your name in my mouth (like sugar-coated lips)

by justlikeswitchblades



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 13:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12233412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades
Summary: If there's anything Jack really dislikes about night games, it's how late they go. Especially when he's on the west coast, but even at when he's at home, there's less time for him to shoot Bitty a good night text, to call him and talk to him about his day.





	your name in my mouth (like sugar-coated lips)

It's half an hour till midnight, and Jack is starting to think he dislikes night games. He realizes that it's a stupid thought to have, considering the majority of his games take place at seven or eight o’clock, regardless of the time zone. 

It's not that he dislikes playing; he's grateful daily for the opportunity to be employed, playing hockey on a professional team, the clickbait articles threatening him to be hockey’s biggest bust--for a second time--dwindling with each game that passes, no matter whether the Falcs win or lose. Even he had his doubts when he was at Samwell, that the hockey world would forget about him (though, early on, he certainly wanted them to), or that, if they didn't, even with a stellar record, that even the worst teams in the league wouldn't want him, deeming his brain so messed up by anxiety that even the possibility of future concussions was too much of a risk.

Maybe it wasn't the most rational thought, but, you know. You can never predict the league.

If there's anything he really dislikes about night games, it's how late they go. Especially when he's on the west coast, but even at when he's at home, there's less time for him to shoot Bitty a good night text, to call him and talk to him about his day. More often than not, Bitty’s still awake at this hour, having texted him throughout the game, gems like “ _I missed your goal when I had to break up an argument between Nursey and Dex--nothing personal, just about government spending this time--but we caught the replay! Tell Marty he had an amazing assist!” and “Should I come up and let #97 know you have a boyfriend? He's getting awfully handsy with your sweater_ -__-;” waiting for him when he gets back to his locker. But he still has to shower and get dressed, field some questions for the media, battle what's left of postgame traffic before he gets back to his apartment and has the chance to enjoy Bitty’s texts in full. He rarely takes his shoes off after a win; sometimes, he still stands in the entryway with his duffel on his shoulder, leaning against the wall, grinning at the texts he could only glance at earlier, Bitty’s words stirring up a warmth in him, softening his waning buzz of adrenaline.

After a loss, he'll take his time, sinking into the couch, rereading his words two, three times, pausing on condolences and little praises Bitty’s sent him until it almost feels like he's there. It's not quite the same, but it's an approximation of the feeling of being held by him, of Bitty smiling and kissing him and combing his fingers through his hair.

His favorite games are the ones where Bitty is there. Of course he has own season to navigate, dealing with the separate yet similar frustration of playing a series at home, or having a free weekend when Jack's on a roadie, or vice versa. But every few weeks, Jack has nothing happening on a Saturday night, and one of those mid-afternoon games the next day that get him nostalgic for midget and U18, where he and Bitty still have time to spoon and nap together afterwards before Bitty has to head back to Samwell.

It'd be greedy to wish for more of those games, and Jack knows it. There's a part of him that's worried about living with Bitty full-time, how they haven't navigated living together for much longer than a week (the Haus didn't count, they weren't together then, it wasn't them on their own). Would the novelty of living together, of being together, wear off?

He tries not to think about it; his meds are getting used to the thought, helping put his brain on a low simmer, letting it bubble up on a rare occasion. Bitty’s still got the rest of junior year, and senior year, ahead of him--they've talked about the future a little bit, but more details will come when they're both ready.

Right now, Jack's a little keyed up after a 6-0 win at home over the Ducks; sure, it's earlier in the season, wins don't always matter around this time, but Anaheim at least made a dent in last season's playoffs, and their goalie was rock solid until halfway through the second period. It's not that he doesn't want to call Bitty--he responded to his “thanks bits :)” with a flurry of heart and kissy-face emojis not even an hour ago--but the team has practice on Wednesdays, and Bitty has his first class at 8:15, and he really shouldn't bother him.

But he knows that if he shoots Bitty a text, Bitty will call him back if he's awake, and if he isn't awake, he'll certainly text him some sleep-addled words back at some ungodly hour, and they've bickered about _that_ enough times that it doesn't have any more--and that makes him laugh, to know that they have some kind of routine, even when they aren't in the same state.

He punches in Bitty’s number; it pulls up the saved contact in his phone, but he likes knowing it anyways, a piece of odd information he doesn't plan on forgetting in the case he does get a concussion. The phone rings twice.

“Jack!” Maybe Bitty’s phone mic is that good; maybe Jack's mind puts the sounds in because he can imagine it so easily; the creak of his desk chair, the soft shut of the door, the way his comforter rustles when he falls back on top of it. “I had to listen on the radio app on my phone--not that it's any easier to concentrate on French that way--but, great game!”

“Bits,” Jack bites his lip, smiling. “ _Merci_.”

“You're _wel_ come,” responds Bitty, his voice tilting happily up on the first syllable of the last word, perhaps emphasized by his accent. Jack mouths a curse, runs a hand through his hair--he catches his reflection in the dark TV screen, and only grins harder at himself.

When he’s talking to Bitty, it’s hard to remember missing him.

Not when he’s so in love like this.

“I won’t bother you for long if you have homework to do. Just wanted to pass along Guy’s request for s’mores pie.”

“Oh, honey. You can bother me as long as you want to--especially if I have homework to do.”

“Bittle,” Jack summons up what he remembers of his captain voice; it’s a little weird to use it now, he thinks, even for a joke like this. “As a student and an athlete, you have to be responsible.”

“Lord.” Jack can practically hear Bitty rolling his eyes on the other end, but his voice is still kind when he responds. “You called me first, sweetheart.”

“Fair. Just, s’mores pie. And I know the request is from Guy, but--I think you should make more of it with marshmallow this time.”

“Jack, you know I love you, and I love your feedback. But I think I know what I’m doing when it comes to pie.”

“I don’t disagree with that, Bittle. I just think it’s strange that most s’mores pie recipes are composed of half chocolate and half marshmallow. Where, in reality, it’s more 70-30 marshmallow.”

Bitty makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. 

“I can make you a marshmallow pie, then?”

“Mm, well. That’s not the same thing.”

“So you admit that the ratio of chocolate to marshmallow should stay the same!”

“I haven’t said anything,” Jack lifts his free hand, attempting to absolve himself. “You’re the expert, and I respect your opinion.”

“Thank you,” Bitty hums, satisfied. Jack can hear the rustling of fabric; Bitty rolling onto his stomach, probably. “Gosh, what a game, Jack. You keep being one goal short of a hatty!”

“Bits. You know I’m saving my first hatty for you, in person, right?”

“Jack Zimmermann. You better not have held out on scoring chances to be romantic, because while that is sweet, I will actually get mad at you.”

“I know you will,” laughs Jack. “I’m kidding, Bits. It’s not like I’d be able to kiss you if I got one with you nearby, anyways.”

“Yeah,” Bitty huffs out a soft breath, closer to a sigh this time. “But we could always celebrate back at your apartment after.”

“Yeah,” echoes Jack. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go there.”

“It’s okay; I know.” A pause. “I miss you, Jack.”

Jack feels his heart twist, squeezed by the bounds of his chest. He lowers himself to the ottoman.

“I miss you too, Bits.”

“It’s weird, you know? Seeing your locker, but you’re not sitting in it.”

“I bet. It’s weird for me too, sometimes, even after training camp, and the preseason, and now, regular games. Travelling is especially weird. I still expect to wake up with the feeling of Shitty spooning me in some hotel room most game days.

“Well,” Bitty laughs. “It seems like Tater is pretty affectionate, if you’re looking for a replacement.”

“I think I’ll be good,” smiles Jack. “I’d prefer to be spooning you, if anyone.”

“Me too.” Bitty is quiet again, for a moment; Jack closes his eyes, listening to the sound of him breathing. “Thanks for calling tonight, Jack.”

“Of course. I love you, Bits.”

“I love you too, Jack. Maybe even enough to figure out a different way of making s’mores pie.”


End file.
